


missed you all this time

by tosca1390



Category: The Chocolate Series - Laura Florand
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She feels necessary and needed as he holds onto her for dear life. In the smallest and largest of ways, she is needed. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>This is just the start, she thinks, bubbling with happiness. They are just beginning. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	missed you all this time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts), [empressearwig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressearwig/gifts), [spyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/gifts).



> Post-The Chocolate Heart. 
> 
> For Jordan.

*

Luc is a nervous flier. 

Summer discovers this on their trip back to Paris. She can’t call Paris home, not now – maybe not ever. But Luc is her home, and with him she goes. He sleeps on the seaplane, his hand tucked into hers and his face pressed into the join of her neck and shoulder. But their flight to Paris is another thing all together. 

She takes the window seat and when he settles next to her, he immediately takes her hand in his. He is a darker olive than the norm, the island sun kind to his skin. Though incongruous, he fit there. He fit there with her so well, and she wonders if she can fit as well in the life he’s constructed in Paris. She wonders if she will ever feel anything other than less than in that city, even with him at her side and in an apartment with a fireplace. 

The thought of lavender fields and a grape arbor in bright southern sunshine keeps her warm. 

“ _Merde_ ,” he mutters. 

“You really don’t like traveling,” she says, half-amused. 

“I have never needed to travel so far so widely before,” he says, glancing at her. 

She pushes up the arm rest between them and lays their joined hands on her thigh. “I’m very glad you did.”

“There is nothing I would not do for you, _soleil_ ,” he murmurs, and leans into kiss her. She drinks him in, shuts her eyes; she will never have enough of him, of the way he makes her feel. With him, she feels less an object and more of a woman, a flesh and blood being with a soul. 

When she pulls back, a smile stretched wide on her mouth, he is right there. He is steady and solid, even if he does look green about the gills. 

“How the hell did you manage to get to the island on your own the first time?” she asks with a laugh, reaching out to smooth the dark hair from his brow. 

He looks at her, wounded. “Have you so little faith in my determination?”

“Never,” she says softly. “I have all the faith in you.”

His eyes gleam, love and possession and a small bit of fear still inside the dark depths. They glow almost copper in the sunlight through the small porthole. “And I, you.”

She thinks he will kiss her again, but the plane jerks as it begins to roll down the runway, and he leans back in his seat, teeth gritted together. 

“Wow,” she says, watching him in fascination. 

“Please do not make me do this again unless I have a glass of wine and a sleeping pill,” he mutters. 

Laughing, she leans in and presses a wet kiss to his jaw. “Every year for a month, you said.”

“I know. I meant it. But the flying – it will take me a bit of getting used to,” he murmurs, gripping her hand. 

“I love you,” she says, her words light and full of wonder. 

At that, he opens his eyes, mouth softening. When she says it, he doesn’t look as if he will crumple any longer, as if he is unworthy of the weight. She’s glad; she plans on saying it often, and she doesn’t want him to break under it. 

“Summer,” he says, his voice aching and lovely. “Oh, Summer.”

She can’t help herself. Leaning in, she kisses him as the plane taxis down the runway and into the air. He bites at her lip as the plane jostles, but she just keeps her fingers wrapped around his and curls into him, until all she can taste and smell and feel is him. Like dusk and cocoa powder and coconut, he envelops her. She feels necessary and needed as he holds onto her for dear life. In the smallest and largest of ways, she is needed. 

This is just the start, she thinks, bubbling with happiness. They are just beginning. 

*

Summer will not go back inside the hotel. 

There is nothing for her there she cannot have on her own, she tells Luc in the quiet pale dawn of his apartment. They are half-asleep from the flight and exhausted, and yet he must go into the hotel, and there is chocolate to be shaped, magicked in the only way he knows how. As he goes to work, mouth turned down at the leaving of her, she drapes herself in his sheets and blankets, buries herself in the smoky scent of him in his bed, and falls asleep. 

When she wakes, it is still winter in Paris. The sunlight is weak, gray-filmy and tired to her eyes. She peels away the sheets and sits up, taking a long slow breath. 

Paris is still Paris, but she does not have to be that lost abandoned girl in the boarding school any longer. And to do that means to be away from everything that meant. It means learning to how live in Paris and like, if not love, it. It means walking the streets and remembering the carousel, the dark-haired boy she loved so well and found again, if a little more broken and battered. She is battered too, but he doesn’t mind. 

He came to her world; she has truly seen so little of his. She wants to see the Paris he loves. Perhaps through his eyes, she will see something other than the dark knotty scar tissue of her past. So, she rises and showers, and digs out her last pair of clean jeans and one of his softer button down shirts, a blue like her eyes. She dresses as if she is going into battle, a mix of her armor and his. The afternoon winds down into early evening as she steps into the crisp damp air. Her eyes still stray away from La Tour; in the orange sunset, she is a stark figure. 

The hotel looms in front of her, a short walk from his apartment. She skips the front and goes to the side entrance, the kitchen entrance. Luc may be the most talented _patissier_ in the city – perhaps the country – but he still lives his humble and raw beginnings in his bones, and uses the back entrances. She hums and sticks her hands in her peacoat pockets, rocking back on her booted heels. 

When he comes outside, tucking his scarf around his neck, he stops at the sight of her. She understands the sensation; when he walks into her space, she cannot help but look, follow him with her eyes. He is so lovely and solid, a wellspring of confidence and determination; it all shines through him, despite his best efforts. 

“Summer,” he breathes, the smile stretching his mouth easily. 

“Hello,” she says with a small smile. 

He comes to her immediately, his hands reaching out to frame her face. “I thought of you all day,” he murmurs, touching his lips to hers. “You are in everything I made.”

She shivers under his touch and with his words, her fingers coming up to wrap around his wrists. “Are you hungry?” she asks, sure of his answer. 

He nods, his eyes focused on her. 

“For food,” she laughs, running the pads of her thumbs along the strong line of his wrist bones. 

“For that as well,” he says with a low laugh. 

Summer pushes up on her tiptoes and kisses him lightly. “Take me to your favorite place,” she says. 

He wets his lips, watching her curiously. “ _Soleil_ , I am perfectly happy to eat at home, with you,” he says carefully. 

“I know,” she shrugs. “I want you to take me out. I want to see the places you love.”

His smile, tentative and smooth, warms her through. “ _D’accord_ ,” he says softly, shifting to slide his arm around her shoulders as his other hand falls away to his side. “ _Je t’aime_ ,” he adds, voice low, as they walk out of the shadowed alley and into the quiet streets. 

It is still early for dinner, so they walk. He takes her on a different path than their last walk in the middle of the night, to different moments of his childhood and teenage years. Summer swallows down her initial fear and skittishness and listens with open ears, sees with wide eyes. The Paris he describes as they wander along small winding side streets and skirting the Seine is a lonely one; he has never been a man for friends, and little wonder. It makes it a personal moment rather than a monument to a city; as he describes his first job in a restaurant, as he remembers the flower girl who stands at the corner near the small park in the summer with violets, she sees a Paris she can live in rather than a Paris she fights tooth and nail. 

Another reason to love him, she thinks as they finally wind their way to the small bistro he swears is his favorite. He has given a city back to her. 

*

The wine is tart and smooth, the steak delicious; Luc eats as if he is a starved man, though he says her steak is better. 

“I don’t believe you for a moment,” she says with a shy smile. 

He takes her hand on top of the scuffed round table, his eyes dark and gleaming in the low light. “Do,” he says, bringing her hand to his mouth. 

Flushing slightly, she curls her fingers against his. They are a few of the only diners in the bistro at this still-early hour; she likes the sense of privacy and insulation. She doesn’t want to share this, not yet. Something will try to ruin it, to pry them apart; they have fought too hard for each other. She will continue to fight until she is bone-tired and empty, and even then will push onwards; but now, she just wants to enjoy. 

The walk home is slow and quiet. He tells her of Patrick, of Sarah, of Hugo and Alain’s relief at his return from holiday. Details of his creations spring from his lips, mango and banana and coconut and passion fruit swirled into dark chocolate mousse and white chocolate shaved ice, gleaming honey-sugar laced patterns. She smiles and listens, tucking her cheek against his shoulder. The island touches him just as it touches her, even from far away. 

“And you?” he asks as they halt in front of his building. 

“Me?” she repeats. 

He keys in his code and sweeps her inside. “Your fellowship?”

“It will take more than a day to construct,” she says with a sigh as she walks upstairs. 

“I know,” he drawls from behind her, voice thick with want. She shivers, aching with her need for his touch. “Did you talk to Cade and Jaime?”

“I did,” she says. It is the one phone call she made today. “We’re meeting later this week to try to figure out details.”

“Good,” he says as they slip inside the front door. He shuts it defiantly behind them. 

The apartment is different at night, she thinks as she slides off her coat into his waiting hands. It feels like home, but a smoky, heavier kind; she feels every inch of the air as it hits her bare skin. Her hair, loose and wavy, falls down her back. She toes off her boots and moves into the living room, reaching for a light but halting as he comes up behind her. 

Luc is there, a shock of heat at her back. “This is my shirt,” he whispers at her ear. His hands skim up and down her arms. 

She tilts her head and smiles into the darkness. “I know.”

Turning then, she wraps her arms around his neck and reaches up to kiss him. His mouth is warm and soft over hers, his hands full of her sunshine hair, the curve of her back and spine through his shirt on her body. Her fingers dig into his shoulder muscles – he is tense and knotted again, one day back in the kitchen. It makes her heart ache, her palms itch. But he is a determined man and will work as hard as he thinks he needs to; the next day, he will wake up and strive to be better. 

How she is enough for him, she isn’t sure. But his mouth breaks from hers and he whispers her name against the soft skin of her cheek. He edges her through the living room and away from the view of La Tour. His – their bedroom is a cave of wonders to her, smothered in darkness and full of promise. The city lights seep through the cracks in the drapery but she is lost in the feel of his lips on her throat and his hands at her hips. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers. “ _Tu es trés belle_.”

They tumble onto the made bed, sheets and quilts shifting under their limbs. He kneels between her spread thighs and smiles down at her; she sees it even in the dimly-lit room, the white of his teeth and the shape of his mouth. Dark hair falls over his brow. 

“Never wear anything but my shirts, _soleil_ ,” he tells her, voice hoarse. He unbuttons and peels her jeans from her legs, his hands stroking up and down her bare calves. 

“Eventually I might be forced to do so,” she teases, breath catching in her throat. Her skin rises in goosebumps with his every touch. 

Grinning foolishly, he leans over her and kisses her, his tongue warm against hers. She sinks her hands into his hair and holds his mouth to hers, even as his fingers dance nonsense patterns alone her thighs. She moans into his mouth as he drags her panties down over her thighs and away, leaving her bare to the cool night air. His shirt hangs over her hips, loose and soft. 

“I cannot believe you are here,” he whispers against her kiss-bruised lips, his hand cupping her between her thighs. She arches into the touch and moans, her fingers digging into his hair, searching for purchase. “ _Je t’aime, je t’aime_ – “

“Luc –“ she breathes, rocking her hips into his hand. The heel of his hand rubs tantalizingly against her clit and she moans with the tease of it. 

His mouth moves wetly down her neck, his other hand cupping her breast through the cotton of his shirt now made hers. Her nipple pebbles under the attention and she shudders with the rising sensation. His name is the only word on her tongue, echoing huskily into the darkness. 

Soon he is between her legs, her thighs settled over his shoulder, his fingers still teasing her wet flesh. Shaking, she looks down to see the gleam of his copper-dark eyes as his mouth moves between her thighs. His tongue slicks over her clit and all over her slick skin, and she all but screams, the sound wracked and lost in her throat. She tangles her fingers into his hair and shudders, rocking her hips into his mouth and his fingers. She cannot make heads or tails of the words he murmurs against her, of the sounds ripped from his throat. All she can hear is her own harsh breathing and the whimpers inching out of her mouth, the blood rushing in her ears. He tastes her as if she is everything to him, slick and lovely and nourishing, filling him up like sunlight. She comes with a sudden wrecked moan, her nails digging into his scalp and her thighs squeezing tight over his shoulders. 

She is loose-limbed and sweat-damp as he shifts away from her. He strips himself of his jeans and sweater before he stretches out over her, hooking a thigh over his hip. She wraps her arms around his shoulder, his skin a brand of heat against hers, and opens her eyes to find him watching her. 

“I love you,” she says softly, voice hoarse. 

He shudders with the words, face unlined and handsome even in the nighttime darkness. She shifts her thigh against his hard length, running her fingers down the length of his muscled back. 

“I love you,” she says again. Once, he had said that the words pour out of her, but she wonders how true it is. She has never said it quite like this; she has never meant it like this at all. She thinks he knows that.

“You are everything,” he whispers, kissing her neck and jaw as he shifts over her more fully, sliding into her with a low groan. She arches into it and sighs, right against his ear. He is as close to her as he possibly can be, skin to skin; she can feel his heartbeat through his chest, against her own. 

It is all she can do not to cry with happiness. 

*

Luc’s stomach rumbles later, and Summer laughs. 

“I don’t know how you put it all away,” she says as she crawls out from underneath the sheets and quilts. His blue shirt now hers, discarded hours ago, is easy to pick up from the floor and slip on. 

Luc groans, stretching out on his stomach. He reaches for her blindly. “Summer – “

“I’ll be right back,” she murmurs, dropping a kiss on his brow. The movement soothes him. His hand touches her hip, squeezes once. Her heart is full to bursting at the sight of him. 

His kitchen is lovely, if perhaps ill-used. She knows she will find boxes upon boxes of sugar cereal and bags of potato chips in the pantry. But there is melting chocolate, and there is milk and vanilla; so, she thinks back to her limited knowledge, of watching him and the other pastry chefs in the hotel kitchens, and pulls out a pot. 

In the end, she makes a tray with two mugs of _chocolat chaud_ , a banana, and a plate of macaroons. Perhaps it isn’t the most healthful, but she has yet to go grocery shopping since arriving. She will have to be in charge of the food supplies, she thinks wryly as she balances the tray and moves through the apartment. 

When she comes in, he is sitting against the headboard, waiting like a child on Christmas morning. His eyes light up as she slips inside. 

“You break me,” he says, smiling so openly she nearly drops the tray. 

“I mean to feed you,” she counters, flushing. She sets the tray on the bed near him and crawls back in, nesting herself against his side. 

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and picks up a macaroon, biting in with relish. “This should be our tradition,” he says softly, handing her a mug. 

She sips the _chocolat chaud_. It is passable, though she is sure Magalie would have her head. “Midnight snacks?”

“Yes,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “First with just us, and then – then with our children. We will have midnight _chocolat chaud_ and sweet treats, and we will all sit in bed, just like this.”

Tears burn behind her eyes, and she cannot control her smile. “And you will have to put them to bed again, once the sugar takes them over,” she laughs. 

He grins down at her, and she can’t resist kissing him, tasting the coconut and chocolate from his lips. 

“Maybe it will just be ours, then,” he murmurs. 

She curls into his side and kisses his shoulder. “Just ours,” she echoes, voice warm. 

“And I have not forgotten about your fireplace, _soleil_.”

“I was teasing,” she says, but perhaps he knows her well enough now to know she would like one. 

Luc grins a little, bright in the dim light. “You are everything,” he says, kissing her brow, her eyelid, her cheek. 

Summer believes him as she has never believed anyone else before. 

*


End file.
